


What Is False and What Is Real

by burn_me_down



Category: SEAL Team (TV)
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Angst, Confusion, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Hurt Clay Spenser, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Torture, Team as Family, Trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-23
Updated: 2020-01-25
Packaged: 2021-02-27 04:41:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,756
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22371226
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/burn_me_down/pseuds/burn_me_down
Summary: Clay can hear everything, but he knows better than to open his eyes.
Relationships: Sonny Quinn & Clay Spenser
Comments: 121
Kudos: 296





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story includes a couple of OCs from my previous fic _Fear in a Handful of Dust,_ but you don’t have to have read that to understand this. Warning for implied/mentioned long-term torture and its aftermath; nothing at all graphic.
> 
> This is a one-shot. At present, I don’t plan to continue it.
> 
> Title from _Can You Help Me_ by Vertical Horizon.

Clay can hear everything, but he knows better than to open his eyes.

He’s learned a lot since the day he lost everything. He has learned that playing possum sometimes buys him a little time - not always, but often enough to be worth a shot.

(He has learned, too, that fighting back just makes it worse - but in the end he usually tries anyway.)

It takes him a few minutes to place the language his new captors are speaking. It’s one he knows, but for so long he has heard it only in the remembered voices of the dead.

English. They’re speaking English.

It’s Clay’s native language, but hearing it again feels like getting knifed in the heart. Every time he thinks they’ve run out of new and inventive ways to hurt him, they prove him wrong.

He shifts, feels the softness of a real mattress beneath him, and realizes this is even worse than just the language.

Clay has been wondering how long it would take them to try this. How long until his captors realized he’d grown accustomed to the constant pain, the casual cruelty, the relentless cold and hunger and abuse, and decided to take a new approach.

Apparently they finally have, and the smooth texture of sheets beneath his fingertips, the comforting weight of a warm blanket tucked around his body, makes him want to curl up in a ball and sob until he can’t breathe.

It’s a particularly vicious sort of cruelty: giving him a taste of comfort and safety, just so it can be ripped away again.

Clay tells himself he won’t let it affect him, that he’ll block out this facsimile of kindness just like he blocked out the endless brutality that came before it, but already tears burn beneath his closed eyelids.

It just feels so nice to be warm.

Warm, and clean, and not hurting. The floaty, fuzzy-edged numbness tells him he’s been dosed with heavy-duty painkillers that are masking the pain from all the injuries he knows he still has.

God, he can’t do this. He can’t.

After everything, after he survived all the weeks or months or years of suffering, this is what’s finally going to break him: a soft bed. A blanket. Medicine. Small comforts that tempt him to feel like he’s allowed to be a person again, and that’s dangerous. He can’t let himself think that way.

Too late, Clay realizes the conversation across the room has stopped and been replaced by the distinct quiet of a room occupied by people who aren’t talking. Not true silence, but breaths, the faint rustle of shifting clothes.

“I think he’s awake,” one of the men says quietly.

_Fuck._

It’s not a voice he recognizes. Of course it isn’t. Clay knows better than to hope for that.

He can’t go back to that filthy hole they dumped him in. Can’t. It has to end here. One way or the other.

He keeps his eyes shut, his breathing even. Listens as they move slowly across the room to stand beside the bed. When they’re close enough, he makes his move, exploding upward out of the bed, barely feeling the sharp bite of the IV as it rips free of his arm.

Clay makes it to his feet... and falls without so much as throwing a punch.

He’s been starved and beaten for God only knows how long, and the fact that he can barely feel the pain of his shattered feet doesn’t prevent them from folding beneath him. Even adrenaline can only go so far. His body just has nothing left.

The two men reflexively jumped back to avoid Clay’s pathetic attempt at an attack, but one of them quickly reverses course and makes it back just in time to prevent Clay from face-planting right into the floor. _“Shit,_ Spenser,” he says gruffly. “Take it easy.”

The sound of his own name sets Clay’s heart racing even harder. He doesn’t know these people. _He isn’t safe._

Shoving the man’s hands away, he scrambles back, his shoulder slamming into the bedframe with a dulled jolt of pain. Somehow he manages to navigate around the edge of the bed and wedge himself into the back corner of the room, where he leans his back against the wall and wraps his arms protectively around his chest.

He’s absolutely exhausted. Despite the fear, the bitter taste of failure, the unbearable knowledge that he just lost his only chance of escaping hell, his eyes are already trying to dip closed again. Maybe that’s partly from the drugs they gave him.

When the tears finally escape and start running down his face, Clay tells himself that’s just the drugs too.

The man who kept Clay from falling comes around the bed slowly, one careful step at a time. keeping his hands visible. He’s got a solemn, nondescript face. Neatly trimmed salt-and-pepper hair and beard. For all that he’s obviously trying to look nonthreatening, he moves like a warrior.

_Dangerous,_ Clay’s instincts warn, but it’s not like the information helps him any. He has no way to fight back.

“Hey, kid.” The man lowers himself to sit with his back against the bed, keeping some distance between the two of them. “Might want to put some pressure on that arm.”

Clay glances down, blinking against the tears that still blur his vision, finally feeling the warm trickle of blood from the inside of his elbow where the torn-out IV was. He uses the corner of his hospital gown to weakly press down on the small wound.

“Good,” the man says, tone soft. “Do you remember me, Clay?”

Clay stiffens, his gaze darting straight back up. Relaxes a tiny bit when he sees that the man hasn’t made any attempt to come closer. He’s still sitting in the same pose, arms resting casually across his knees.

The stranger exhales, slow and measured. “Gonna take that as a no. My name is Bridger. I’m Romeo One. You ran with us once in Africa, remember that? Came along as our ’terp. Things went off the rails, and I know I didn’t really give you much cause to trust me back then, but you’re safe now, okay? Swear to God.”

_Bridger. Romeo One._

Gruff. Salt-and-pepper hair.

Clay’s memories are tangled, faces and events often hard to place, but... he thinks he remembers this man now. Remembers him being with DEVGRU, a lifetime ago, in the world before.

Not an enemy. Not a new torture strategy. A _brother._

The tiniest hint of hope, sharp and dangerous as broken glass, slides up beneath Clay’s breastbone and slices delicately into his heart.

He swallows, tries to remember how to make his voice work... but then the man claiming to be Bridger continues, “’Course we called Bravo to let them know. Thought Hayes might cry.” The suggestion of a faint smile flickers briefly across the somber face. “They’ll be here soon as they can.”

The hope shatters, leaving a new bleeding wound in its place, the pain of it cutting straight through the haze of medication. Clay closes his eyes. His chest heaves with a helpless sob.

_Lies._ Nothing but lies. His first instinct was correct. They’re just fucking with his head again.

Back home, in the real DEVGRU, there must be a new Bravo Team by now, strangers wearing his brothers’ patches, but they won’t know or care anything about Clay. The men he loved, trusted, fought beside, they’re long dead.

He saw the building explode with his team inside. Saw the pictures of their charred bodies afterward. His captors made damn sure of that. 

That was what came the closest to truly breaking Clay: the knowledge that he had nothing left to go home to. Eventually he tried to just not think about them at all. Never managed it, though. 

“Whoa, kid. It’s okay.” Fake Bridger sounds surprised, and... worried? “Want to tell me what’s going on inside that head of yours?”

Clay doesn’t dignify that with a response. Doesn’t bother opening his eyes again. The faster they realize he isn’t fooled, the sooner this stupid ruse can end.

Across from him, there’s a sigh. Then fake Bridger says quietly to the other man in the room, who has yet to say a word, “See if you can get through to them.”

“Copy,” the man says, and leaves the room.

Just a brief interaction, but it sounds so... _right._ So much like the way Clay used to respond to orders from his team leader.

Doesn’t matter. None of it is true.

“Want to know something funny?” Fake Bridger asks casually. “We didn’t even know you were there. Wish I could tell you it was some kind of heroic rescue, but we just thought we were clearing out a nest of upstart terrorists who’d escalated to dealing in chemical weapons. And then Collins found a pit, and you were in it. Think it’s the closest I’ve ever seen him to being rendered honest to God speechless. Best 11 seconds of my life.”

That hint of a smile shows up again, in the man’s voice this time, like he thinks he’s trying to be funny. Clay doesn’t have the energy to be mad about it. Even the tears are slowing down; he’s too weak and exhausted to _cry,_ and how utterly pathetic is that?

Bridger draws a slow, deep breath. “Spenser,” he says evenly. “Listen. I don’t know what’s going through your head right now, but I do know that you’ve been through a kind of hell I can’t even imagine, and I am truly sorry for that. We tried, kid. For months. You were just _gone.”_

Not _were._ He still is, because none of this is real.

The sound of the door opening lends Clay just enough strength to flinch, eyes jerking open. The other man steps back inside the room, holding out an iPad at arm’s length, his eyes fixed on the screen.

“Yeah,” he says. “He’s right here. Hang on.” Dropping to his heels next to fake Bridger, he turns the tablet so that it’s facing Clay.

The face on the screen belongs to a dead man.

Sonny Quinn’s expression twists, tears shining in his eyes, and then he smiles bright. The way Clay tried so hard to remember him: smiling, not a shattered, burnt corpse.

“Hey, Poster Boy.” Sonny’s drawl, uncharacteristically gentle, wobbles at the edges. He clears his throat, wipes his face, and says, “Valdez says you’re a little confused, but I figure that’s just shock and horror from wakin’ up to see his hideous face lurkin’ over your bed.”

Sonny.

_Alive._

The whole world shifts on its axis. Everything Clay thought he knew, everything he believed about what is true and what’s a lie... none of it was real.

Behind Sonny on the iPad screen, other faces crowd into view: Jason. Ray. Brock. Trent. The whole team is there. Breathing. Smiling, some of them through tears like Sonny.

Turns out Clay does still have enough strength left to cry at least a little more.

The sob hits him with the force of a punch to the gut. He covers his face with his hands, curling forward, only vaguely registering the alarm in Sonny’s now louder voice.

It passes. Clay manages to straighten, lean his back against the wall again. He’s shaking with exhaustion and with the pain that’s starting to break through the blur of drugs, but he’s smiling too. It feels strange on his face, foreign and forgotten.

The worry on Sonny’s face eases a bit, and his own grin returns. “There you are,” he says. “Look, Clay, we’ll be there real soon, okay? And then you won’t be able to pry us away with a crowbar. But in the meantime, it’s been a real long time since we’ve seen you, so could we maybe get a closer look?”

Cautiously, Valdez leans forward a bit, holding the iPad out in Clay’s direction without moving too much closer to him.

Clay breathes out. He breathes in. Hope crackles through his body like electricity.

He reaches out.


	2. Chapter 2

Bravo Team is on assignment in Syria when they get the news.

Their mission went well. For all that Sonny gives Vic shit, will never fully forgive him for who he replaced, even he can’t deny that the kid is a solid operator. He’s smooth and steady and has a good head on his shoulders.

They walk in, dusty and sweaty and tired, and are met by Eric Blackburn. He’s wearing that carefully neutral expression he always uses to conceal strong emotion.

Something has happened.

Please, God, don’t let it be another loss. Sonny doesn’t think he can take another of those right now. Not after... everything.

Mercifully, Eric doesn’t keep them in suspense for too long. His gaze flicks from one face to another, and then he says steadily, “Good work, gentlemen. While y’all were gone, we got a call from Romeo Team.” A pause. He clears his throat, takes a deep breath that turns the tiniest bit unsteady toward the end, and says, “They found Clay.”

Sonny stares blankly at Blackburn. His head feels emptier than Loving County.

Jason is the first one of them to manage an actual reaction. Frozen in place like the rest of the team, he asks tonelessly, “In what condition?”

Blackburn’s eyes dart away from them for a fraction of an instant, then quickly back. He squares himself, facing them like he’s standing at attention, even though he’s their CO. “Alive but injured. They sedated him. Said he hasn’t been coherent yet. Docs at Bagram don’t want to move him till they can evaluate him better.”

Clay. _Alive._

Sonny has to be dreaming. In a minute here he’s gonna have to wake up again to a world without his best friend in it, and do what he does every morning: try to find a way to live with the pain of never knowing what happened to him.

But he digs his left thumbnail into the inside of his right wrist, and the pain feels real. The sun on his back, the smell of dust and heat - it all feels real.

Sonny doesn’t realize how much his head is spinning until he feels Trent’s hand on his elbow, steadying him. It takes him a couple tries to get a sound to come out of his throat, and when it does it’s just a single word, lilting up hopefully at the end: “Bagram?”

It’s not so far away. Not on the other side of the world like it would be if they were in Virginia Beach right now.

Blackburn’s stoic mask cracks just a bit, revealing a hint of a satisfied smile. “I made the case with the brass that SO1 Spenser could have valuable, time-sensitive intel, and in his current state, he’s unlikely to trust or talk to anyone other than his team. Wheels up for Afghanistan in two hours, gentlemen.”

Sonny could honest to God kiss his CO right now. He settles for taking a wobbly step forward, squeezing Eric’s arm, and telling him in a choked voice, “Thank you.”

Blackburn gives a simple nod in return.

Sonny feels like he floats through everything that comes next. Like his feet never actually touch the ground.

There’s AARs and debriefing. He takes a quick shower. Goes through the motions of the typical post-mission routine, but it’s all on autopilot; the entire time, his mind is two thousand miles away.

What does ‘injured’ mean? How badly?

Where has their kid brother _been_ all this time?

The man they lost on one of the worst days of Sonny’s life so far, will he even be the same one they get back?

Sonny makes it back from his brief shower just in time to see his team leader answer a phone call. “Bridger,” Jason says simply, leaning his shoulder against the wall in a way that looks casual but that Sonny knows is for support.

For a minute Jason just listens, closing his eyes briefly, skin gone a shade paler than it was. Then he says quietly, “Understood. We’ll be there as soon as we can. And Bridge?” His voice thickens, the emotion in it uncharacteristically clear when he adds, “Thank you.”

After Jason hangs up, he stares blankly into the middle distance for a minute. It’s Brock who finally prompts, “Boss?”

Hayes blinks, rubs a hand over his stubbled, grimy face - he hasn’t showered yet - and draws a measured breath. “He didn’t say a lot that we haven’t already heard. Just that they found Clay in pretty rough conditions, and he was too out of it to talk much, but his vitals were strong.”

There’s so much still unknown, so many terrible possibilities lurking beneath the surface of this situation, yet that last line buoys Sonny’s heart. Damn straight Clay’s vitals are strong. Their boy is a fighter. Whatever he’s been through, he’ll overcome it, through sheer bullheaded stubbornness if nothing else.

“You should shower, Jace,” Ray says softly, then pointedly raises his eyebrows at the look he receives in return. “You’re not gonna miss anything in five minutes. I’ll keep your phone, let you know if something comes up. The nurses won’t even let you into Clay’s room smelling like that, so _go.”_

Jason goes.

Not too long after he gets back, the next call comes in, but it’s not to his phone this time. It’s to Sonny’s from Valdez, and it’s a video call.

Mouth gone suddenly dry, Sonny answers, waiting through the few endless seconds it takes for the face of Romeo’s 2IC to pop up on screen. Valdez looks tired and harried, his expression tight with worry. When he doesn’t even take the time to give Sonny shit - the foundation upon which their relationship is built - Sonny knows that things must be pretty serious.

“Spenser’s awake,” Valdez says by way of greeting. “He’s... pretty upset. Don’t think he recognizes us, or even realizes he’s safe now. Bridge thought it might help him to get to see y’all. Hear your voices.”

Sonny’s heartbeat feels like a gong in his chest, reverberating throughout his body. He wasn’t expecting this so soon. Was mentally counting down the hours until they’d see Clay’s face and finally get to talk to him again. Now that that moment has arrived sooner than expected, he suddenly doesn’t feel ready.

But if their brother needs them, then it isn’t even a choice. They’ll do whatever. Anything.

“Well then let us talk to him,” he says.

With a nod, Valdez heads back down a seemingly endless hallway. As the seconds tick past, Sonny grows more and more antsy from the anticipation. He can feel an artery in his neck throb with each beat of his heart.

At last Valdez shoulders open a door, and Sonny stupidly asks, “That his room?”

“Yeah. He’s right here. Hang on.” Valdez drops down low and turns the screen so that it’s directly facing the corner of the room.

Sonny’s first look at Clay feels like a blow to the larynx. For an instant, his throat seizes up and he can’t even swallow. The emotion overwhelms him. It’s unbearable relief, because this is actually _real;_ their lost brother is alive. It’s horror and fury, because Clay is bruised and emaciated and obviously scared out of his mind, and Sonny would very much like to kill every last son of a bitch who ever had a hand in making him that way.

It lasts only an instant, and then he pushes through it. Shoves away the horror, holds tight to the joy, and manages to smile through the tears that have started to soften his vision.

Faced with uncertainty, Sonny does what he does best: tries to fix it with humor.

“Hey, Poster Boy. Valdez says you’re a little confused, but I figure that’s just shock and horror from wakin’ up to see his hideous face lurkin’ over your bed,” he drawls.

And Clay... Clay looks utterly shellshocked, and then he _crumples._ Curls forward and buries his face in his hands, making choked noises that cause Cerberus to whine worriedly in response.

Sonny exchanges horrified glances with his teammates. He bites his tongue hard, afraid he’s done something wrong. They _just_ got Clay back! Sonny can’t have somehow managed to kill him from a couple thousand miles away!

“Clay?” He calls, unable to keep the alarm out of his voice. “Clay, you okay? Talk to me, buddy. Please. I’m sorry.”

Finally Clay pushes himself back up, visible tremors wracking his body. Face wet with tears, he looks at the screen... and smiles.

The kid still looks so beaten, so sick and exhausted and hollow-eyed, but that smile? That smile is one hundred percent pure Clay, and Sonny feels like his heart could wing right out of his chest at the sight of it.

“There you are,” he tells the brother he thought he’d never see again.

Sonny promises they’ll be there soon, and asks if they can get a closer look. Clay seems indecisive for a couple seconds, but then he uncurls and reaches out, taking Valdez’s tablet and setting it on his knees to look down at.

Clay doesn’t say anything yet, either unable to or just not ready, but that’s okay. Whenever he is ready, his team will be right there to listen.

They pass around Sonny’s phone, each of them saying a few words to Clay, maybe getting a nod in response if they’re lucky - but he does smile at all of them. Before long, his eyes start to droop and a nurse shows up to get him back into bed, ending the call before any of them are ready.

After that, there’s the flight to Bagram. Tired from the mission, the members of Bravo all try to nap, but most of Sonny’s teammates aren’t any more successful than he is. Eventually Jason gets up and starts pacing, and then Brock and Cerberus join him, which puts an end to anyone trying to sleep.

Vic looks awkward and out of place; he’s never met Spenser, doesn’t have the ties to him that the others do. He even tried to suggest staying behind, but the others all vetoed that idea. “You can be our errand boy, get us coffee from the cafeteria,” Sonny told him, and the kid just nodded silently.

That’s the worst thing about teasing Vic. The fact that he rarely bites back makes it so much less fun than it was with Clay, who could always give as good as he got.

Can. _Can_ always give as good as he gets.

In life, and especially in their line of work, people move from present tense to past all the time. It’s just a reality of the world they live in. Someone making the shift from past tense back to present? Well, that’s a much rarer thing, and Sonny is going to cherish the hell out of it.

Once they make it inside the CJTH, Sonny, true to his promise, sends Vic to retrieve coffee for everyone. The rest of them head to Spenser’s room. Bridger and Valdez meet them in the waiting room, explaining that Clay is sleeping at the moment so they left him alone.

Bridger gives them a brief update on what he knows of Spenser’s physical condition, which is just the basics. Malnutrition, dehydration, kidney infection, contusions, fractured ribs, broken fingers, shattered feet that will require surgery to fix.

All together, the scant details paint a picture that makes Sonny’s finger ache for a trigger to pull.

After relating the details, Bridger hesitates and gnaws at the edge of his lip. “Where we found him,” he says abruptly. “It was...” He trails off, like he can’t even come up with a way to describe it. Finally settles on, “Bad,” in a tone so bleak that it makes Sonny feel sick. “Just... be careful with him, okay? Don’t think he even remembers what being safe feels like, and he’s got a hell of a lot to work through.”

“We will,” Jason promises. He claps Bridger on the shoulder and squeezes, telling him quietly, “Thank you.”

Bridger bobs a nod of acknowledgement. “Wish we could have done more,” he says.

Sonny knows what he means: that he wishes they could have somehow found Clay sooner, before things got this bad. They all wish that. They’ll have a lifetime to regret that they didn’t.

Clay is dozing when they head into his room, but jolts awake as soon as the door opens.

He looks even worse in person than he did on the small screen, if that’s possible. He’s mottled with bruising and horribly thin, his cheeks hollowed out. Though he seems clean, hair and beard freshly trimmed, his skin has an unhealthy yellowish pallor to it.

But he smiles. He sees them, and pushes himself up straighter against the pillows propped at his back, and smiles so hard it crinkles up the corners of his eyes.

Even before Bridger’s warning, the team discussed things on the plane and agreed that they need to give him space. Move slowly, speak softly, not get too close too soon. Sonny _itches_ to break those rules, to rush forward and envelop his best friend in a hug, but the last thing he wants to do is make anything worse, so he forces himself to hang back with the others.

Jason takes the lead again. With a slow half-step forward, he says softly, “Hey, kid. How are you feeling?”

Clay’s eyes dart down to his own bandaged hands in his lap, then quickly back to Jason’s face. He clears his throat, stalls by taking a careful sip of the water on his tray, and then whispers hoarsely, “Okay.”

It’s obviously a bald-faced lie, and his voice sounds about as bad as the rest of him looks, but Sonny’s heart soars at the sound of it anyway.

Clay takes another sip, looks up at them with his eyes suddenly brimming with tears, and croaks, “Alive.”

“Yeah, buddy. You made it. You’re alive.” Trent sounds like he’s about to cry too.

Clay immediately shakes his head, raising a splinted, busted-up hand to clumsily point at them. “Y’all,” he clarifies. “Y’all... are alive.”

There’s a moment of silent confusion as they all exchange glances, and then it clicks, and they look back at him as one. Surprisingly, Brock is the first of them to put the realization into words. “You thought we were dead?” His voice is very gentle.

Clay’s chin wobbles. Tears starting to flow now, he nods.

Oh, Jesus _Christ._

Sonny’s heart breaks all over again.

“Saw the building... go up,” Clay says. “And... they showed me... pictures. Of... bodies.”

The words come slowly, in stops and starts, like Spenser is having to flip through a mental dictionary to pick out one painstaking word at a time. Sonny guesses talking isn’t something he’s done much of in a long while.

“Brother.” Ray’s voice sounds soft and choked. “All this time, you thought we were dead?”

Clay nods again. Tears leak steadily down his face, like rainwater; he doesn’t even seem aware of them.

_“God,_ Clay,” Sonny breathes.

He can’t imagine it.

What it must have been like to endure those months of captivity and torture, all the while believing himself the last survivor of Bravo. Thinking every last one of his teammates lay dead and cold in the ground.

The fact that Spenser even survived it at all speaks to how strong he is.

“We’re alive, Clay,” Sonny tells him, unable to keep the fierce note out of his voice. “We’re all right here and we are just fine, and you ain’t gonna be able to get rid of us now, okay? You are not alone, buddy. Never.”

Clay looks at him, eyes bright through the tears, and then he reaches out.

All the warnings about giving the kid space flutter right out of Sonny’s head like a herd of moths. He moves forward, and Clay grabs his sleeve and tugs him down, and an instant later Sonny’s arms are full of shivering, scrawny brother.

Spenser is so painfully thin that his body is all sharp edges, and Sonny knows how bad he’s hurt, so he keeps the hug very gentle, arms laced loosely around Clay rather than clinging tight.

“You’re okay,” Sonny says like a promise. “Just breathe with me, buddy, you’re okay,” and Clay breathes with him, and they close their eyes and hold on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The end - for real this time. :)
> 
> Never thought I’d say this, but I’m starting to run low on story ideas, so would love to hear any prompts y’all might have for me or things you would like to see. Could be a whole plot, a specific type of whump, a setting, scene or scenario... just about anything goes.


End file.
